Thursday, December 15, 2011

Letter to Lucia: 26 Months

Dear Little One,

A quick letter this month—it’s late and I need to get to bed. For once it’s not you who’s exhausting me. You’re pretty easy these days, though you certainly have your moments: refusing to have your diaper changed, refusing to lie still during said changing, insisting “Own. Own.” to put your own shoes on when we’re in a hurry to leave the house (this one’s cute, of course, despite the frustration).

You are starting to show signs of realizing that Greta is here to stay, and that Greta tends to take up quite a bit of my time. Though you’re unfailingly gentle and sweet with her, in the past couple of days you’ve often come up to me when I’m holding her and said, “Baby office.” This means I should go put the baby in her bouncy chair in the office, which is where she takes her naps. When the baby is sleeping in the office, you have all my attention. Sometimes you also say “No milk” when you don’t want the baby to nurse. The other morning when Daddy was holding Greta you chanted simply, “Baby no. Baby no.” You’re too young to realize it, dear one, but it’s hard on me, too, not to be able to give you the attention you need.

At 26 months you’re becoming shyer again, after a month or two of increased outgoingness. We went to two holiday parties last weekend and you definitely were not happy about it. At the first, the naturally exuberant hosts and their large, exuberant dog scared you immediately, and I had to hike you up on my hip (Greta was on my chest in the Bjorn) and carry you into another room, where we sat and ate a gingerbread man cookie until you were ready to emerge. At the second, you watched with interest as several older children played; but you ventured into the room with the toys only once you could have it all to yourself. At our playgroup this week, you sat near the window while three other children played with your toys. You didn’t cling to me, but you weren’t about to join in. And all I can say is, sorry, little one, but you are me. I truly hope you ultimately exhibit more of your daddy’s garrulousness and social ease; life is just easier that way. For now, though, you are happiest when you are here at home, with just us around, when you feel free to be your own chatty, funny, exuberant self.

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This blog began in 2006, when I quit my job and sold all my furniture to move to Barcelona with Andrew, skipping town blissfully and dramatically; then we skipped town again, to California, and then, finally, back to Brooklyn. Now I'm in a rambling old house in the suburbs, with two babies and a husband and the suspicion that we won’t be skipping town again anytime soon—at least not the kind of skipping town that involves packing boxes and moving trucks.